Midnight Is My Time

by Mike Dellosso

  For such a time as this.

  One person—a just person—who had learned the difficult way of walking by faith.

  The just shall live by faith.

  The girl. She had no idea yet, and he wasn’t sure she would understand until the moment arrived, but the fate of the world hung on her ability to travel safely to her destination. That’s why they had recruited her travel companion. He was worthy of such a task. But he had so much to learn. The man wondered at times if they had chosen correctly. But he’d wondered that before, many times, only to discover time and time again that they always chose correctly.

  The man finished his coffee, dropped a few bills on the table, and left the diner. He had places to go. He needed to stay ahead of the girl and her companion.

  .......

  In the same diner, at the same time, sat another man. Nursing his own coffee. Fingering a few sugar packets and staring at a scratch that cut a deep groove in the surface of the table. He was an outlaw of sorts. A renegade. Wanted, but not wanted by anyone in particular. To most, he was invisible. Just another traveler making his way across the country. Alone. And wanting to be left alone.

  Folks had changed since The Event. The care they once had shown for each other had turned to greed for some, but for most, it had been replaced by indifference. Much of life—the life they used to love and enjoy—didn’t matter anymore. They cared for themselves now. Minded their own business. Stayed out of each other’s way.

  He liked it this way. He could remain unnoticed. He could move about without being bothered or questioned or followed. Folks just didn’t care about him. He was unimportant.

  But they were wrong.

  He was very important. They had no idea how important. He was part of a greater plan, part of something much larger than himself or his own miserable existence.

  It was all about the girl. She too was important. Very important. More important, in fact, than he was. And he was going to destroy her.

  The man picked up a sugar packet and turned it over and over in his hand. He then tore the top off and allowed the grains to spill out onto the table. With his index finger, he drew a circle in the fine white granules. The girl’s days were like the grains of sugar. Dissolvable. So easily wiped out. He moved his hand across the table, palm down, and scattered the grains.

  He would find her, of course. Eventually. Like a wolf tracking sheep. And then he would kill her. He might even take his time, have a little fun first. And why not? There was little in this life to enjoy, little in this world to enjoy. If the opportunity came to squeeze a little pleasure from such a wretched place . . . why not?

  Chapter 7

  Missy pressed herself against the truck’s door and grasped the seat belt crossing her chest with both hands. Andy had given her an old pullover stuffed behind the driver’s side seat. It smelled of oil and grease and was a bit large for her frame but gave her the cover she needed. The window rattled against her head as the truck barreled down the road. They’d taken one of the pickups, and it carried the scent of the man who tried to rape her. Tobacco and body odor. The smell knotted her stomach.

  Andy had tried to pry out of her what had happened while he’d been unconscious, but she didn’t know. She didn’t. At least she couldn’t explain it in any terms he could understand. She told him about the assault and her efforts to fight the man off. But after that . . . she just couldn’t say.

  She now feared herself. Maybe more so than she feared any man. Andy had described to her the dead bodies in the clearing. But she couldn’t give him sensible answers as to how they came to be like that. Had she done it? If so, how? Or had they been struck by lightning? Had she been struck as well? Flash rainfalls were rare but not unheard of since The Event. Thunderstorms were even more rare.

  She recalled little. She’d felt intense burning in her mouth and throat along with a tightening in her abdomen and chest so severe she thought she’d vomit. Then she’d blacked out; she wasn’t even sure for how long. When she became aware again, she was still standing, her entire body tingling like it had conducted a thousand volts of electricity. She felt no pain, though. Soon after that, Andy stirred, and she felt her way across the rough terrain to where he lay against the tree.

  Missy could take the odor in the truck’s cab no longer and rolled down the window.

  “You okay?” Andy said.

  “Just need some air.”

  The truck rattled and knocked around on the rough pavement. Since The Event, nothing had been repaired. Potholes took over whole sections of road. Some roads had almost fully deteriorated and returned to a gravel-like state.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m not sure. But . . . can we change the subject?” The thought of what had happened, what she had quite possibly done, was too much to ponder. Her mind needed a rest.

  “Sure. You didn’t finish your story back there at the diner. You left Pittsburgh.”

  Yes, she left Pittsburgh. Not by choice. The memory of Dear Old Ron put a knot in her stomach. “Ron got out of prison early. He knew some guys who knew some guys who knew the district attorney, or something like that. He came up for early release and, surprise, Ron was on the loose again.”

  “Nothing you two could do about it?”

  “Nope. My mom talked to our lawyer, pleaded our case, but his hands were tied too. The district attorney had called in a few favors. Those favors apparently reached all the way to the governor. We were outnumbered and outranked.”

  “So you ran.”

  “Not at first. Ron was on parole. We knew he had to be on his best behavior. One slipup and he’d be back in the can, and there wouldn’t be anything anyone could do about it. So we hunkered down and lived as normally as we could.”

  But that normalcy only lasted so long. Then everything changed. Memories of that day and her mother’s untimely death rolled through Missy’s mind. The knot was now in her throat. She needed to change the subject again. Talk about something not so personal.

  “How much fuel do we have?”

  “’Bout three-quarters of a tank.”

  “Where do you think they got it?” It had been over a decade since The Event, and most, if not all, the gas stations had been pumped dry within a few years. There simply was not enough manpower to produce gasoline fast enough and get it to the consumer. Some folks had converted their vehicle’s engine to run on methane, some on ethanol, some on vegetable oil. But folks mostly looked out for themselves, and unless one had mechanical skills and knowledge, he either scavenged for gasoline, bought it on the black market (usually at a very personal price), or took to bicycling. Missy had heard of people selling themselves for sex, consigning their children to indentured slavery, and bartering most of their earthly goods for a few gallons of fuel. In the past five years, though, most of the refineries had been resurrected, and gas had become available again on a limited basis and mostly around more densely populated areas.

  “Don’t know. Must be a gas station around here somewhere.”

  She was about to inquire about the price of gas when Andy grunted.

  “What is it?”

  “Hitchhiker.”

  Missy pushed away from the door and sat upright in the seat. “Man? Woman?”

  “A guy. Young.”

  “Are you going to stop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “We can’t trust him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t. But we can’t take any chances.”

  Missy turned her face toward Andy. She knew he was being protective of her, but she also knew what it was like to be out there by herself. “Please stop.”

  Andy slowed the truck. “Why?”

  “We need to help him, to do what we can to keep our humanity. I’ve been this guy many times, and someone usually stopped to give me a lift.”

  “Usually,” Andy said. The truck stopped. Andy was silent for a moment. “I guess he looks innocent enough
. But any weird stuff, anything I’m uncomfortable with, and he goes.”

  Missy smiled. “I’m a good judge of character.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I’m not so sure about the company you’ve been keeping lately.”

  .......

  The guy was young, late teens or early twenties, thin, with deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks. His hair hung to his shoulders, and a few weeks’ worth of growth covered the lower half of his face. Missy slid over on the bench, and the newcomer climbed into the cab after stowing his duffel bag behind the seat.

  “Thanks for the ride. I have no idea how far I’ve walked.”

  “Where you headed?” Andy asked.

  “Anywhere. Nowhere.” He laughed. “Everywhere.”

  Missy reached for the seat belt and fastened it around her waist. “A man with purpose. I like that.”

  The hitchhiker smirked. “That I am not. Name’s Trevor.” He reached out his hand to shake Missy’s. When she didn’t respond, Trevor glanced at Andy, then said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

  “I’m blind. I’m also Missy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Missy.” He took her hand and shook it, then extended his hand to Andy.

  Andy didn’t like this kid. He had no reason not to. Trevor seemed innocent and friendly enough, but there was a feeling in Andy’s gut that told him not to trust this stranger. Not yet, anyway.

  Andy took Trevor’s hand in a firmer than necessary grip. “Andy.” When he turned his face fully toward Trevor, he saw the look of disgust that passed through the kid’s eyes, and he didn’t miss the subtle shift in body posture that inched Trevor closer to the door.

  Andy shifted the truck into drive and hit the gas. They had time to make up and distance to cover while they had gas in the tank. Plus, he wondered if Colin and what was left of his minions might come looking for their friends. When they found them, Andy wanted to be miles away.

  As he drove, Andy kept his gaze on the road. They’d broken free of the forest, and the road now cut a straight path through terrain that was once acres of fertile fields—corn, soy, wheat—but now lay barren and wasted. Dry as a sun-scorched bone. The road’s condition was no better here than in the forest, though, and he had to pay close attention to the potholes and patches of crumbling pavement that riddled the way.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes before Andy said, “Where are you from, Trevor?”

  “Florida.”

  Missy turned her face toward him. “Florida? Did you walk all this way?”

  “Most of it. Hitched some of it, but mostly walked.”

  “How long?” Missy asked.

  “How long what?”

  “How long have you been traveling?”

  “Since it happened.”

  Missy turned her face toward the windshield. “Ten years.”

  “Yup. I was nine. That first year, you know, when things were the worst, we—I—went into hiding. Then when the craziness stopped . . . you know, when the government went back to something that resembled normal, we spent another year in hiding because most people were still crazy.”

  “It was bad,” Missy said.

  “Bad seems tame compared to what I saw.”

  A memory flashed through Andy’s mind. More bits and pieces of images than anything else. Fire. Yelling. Suffocation. And smoke. So much smoke. Filling his lungs. Struggling to breathe. Grasping at anything that might lift him above the smoke line. Then the panic: he was dying.

  He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Trevor was still talking.

  “. . . Took me three years to get out of Florida. I’ve camped out in several places since then. Spent almost a year in North Carolina. Some of the cities there are almost back to normal.”

  They drove in silence again. Andy could tell Missy was thinking about something, mulling something over. He glanced at her. She was chewing on her bottom lip.

  “You said we.”

  “We?” Trevor said.

  “Yeah. You said we went into hiding.”

  Ahead, a small town lay on the horizon.

  “Oh, yeah. My mom and me. She was with me the first four years.”

  Missy hesitated, then asked, “What happened?”

  “She, uh, got sick. We were in South Carolina, pretty much the middle of nowhere. I went for help, tried to find a town with a pharmacy or hospital, anything, but there was nothing. By the time I returned, she had . . . she, uh . . .”

  Missy reached for Trevor’s hand and found it. “It’s okay. I know. I lost my mom soon after it happened.”

  Again, a memory was there, stabbing Andy’s mind. His mother reaching for him, her black-stained face twisted in agony. The animals were there too. The rats. Scurrying here and there, climbing over one another. The floor moved with them.

  The town proved to be mostly empty. A few cars were parked outside a small grocery store. Most of the homes looked abandoned. The town hadn’t been touched yet by the rebuilding efforts. These were folks intent on pushing through and surviving on their own without the aid of the government or any of the relief organizations that had popped up. As they drove past the store, a man stepped out and made eye contact with Andy. He then sized up the truck from front to back. As they rolled past, Andy checked his mirrors. The man stood still outside the store, hands in his pockets, watching the truck.

  “Hey, you know what?” A hint of excitement tinted Trevor’s voice.

  Missy said, “No, what?”

  “Do you like to read?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Braille. Can you read braille?”

  Missy’s eyes widened. “A little. Yeah.”

  Trevor reached behind the seat and fished something from his duffel bag. It was a thick hardback book. “Here.” He set it on Missy’s lap. “Pride and Prejudice.”

  Missy opened the book and ran her fingers over the textured pages. She giggled. “How in the world did you get this?”

  “My mom was blind. Since she was seven. That was her favorite book.”

  Missy flipped the book to the cover and slid her fingers over the raised title. “Oh, I love this story too.” She reached for Trevor’s hand, and he let her have it. “Thank you so much. Are you sure, though? It was your mother’s.”

  “She’d want it to be read. I have no use for it other than to remember her. And I have lots of memories that help with that.”

  Missy turned her face toward Andy and held up the book. “What do you think of this, huh? Aren’t we fortunate to have picked up this young man?”

  “We sure are,” Andy said, though he meant not a word of it. That feeling was there again; something didn’t sit right with him about Trevor.

  Trevor glanced at Andy and smiled.

  Andy wanted to punch him in the mouth.

  Chapter 8

  The gymnasium of the old high school had been turned into a shelter. Andy found out that city officials had shut down St. Vincent’s Catholic High School soon after The Event and never reopened it. The kids were funneled to either the local public school or other private schools in the area. Many parents also took to homeschooling their children.

  With its high ceilings and cavernous space, the gym seemed much larger than it was. Sleeping bags, cots, blankets, and pillows covered almost every square foot of floor space. Piles of clothes sat here and there, some neatly folded, some strewn about like a mishmash of debris after a garment factory explosion.

  Andy returned to Trevor and Missy standing by the door. Missy held on to Trevor’s arm. She looked smaller than usual, fragile. Andy didn’t like the chummy Trevor; something about him still didn’t click.

  “Tim said we can take the spot over there by the bathrooms.” Andy pointed across the gym to one of the only open areas on the floor. “There are showers in the locker rooms. Clothes in boxes at either end of the gym. He said we can help ourselves.”

  Missy’s eyes widened. “Tim?”

 
“The priest,” Andy said. “He runs this place.”

  Missy turned her head from side to side. The constant chatter in the large room was background noise Andy hadn’t even noticed until this moment. “So many people,” she said. “Where did they all come from?”

  “Tim said most of them are travelers. Homeless, wandering from town to town. Need a place to stay for the night, some for more. He said some have been here for months. A few for years.

  Missy turned her face toward Trevor. “Like us.”

  Trevor patted her arm. “That’s right, little sister. Like us.”

  Trevor had taken to calling Missy “little sister,” and it bugged Andy. “We should head over there. Tim has some blankets we can use for the night. First thing in the morning, we’ll hit the road again.”

  “Can’t we stay a few days?” Trevor inclined his head toward Missy. “I think we could all use the rest.”

  Andy tightened his jaw. “You can stay if you like, Trevor, but Missy and I need to keep moving.”

  “Maybe just one day,” Missy said.

  Trevor smiled at Andy. It wasn’t a sinister smile, nor did it convey any sense of malice or arrogance, but Andy didn’t like it. He wanted to tell the tagalong to beat it, go back to wherever he came from or keep heading toward wherever he was going before they picked him up. But Missy liked Trevor. To run him off would alienate her, and he couldn’t do that. The old man’s words at the diner came back to him:

  The girl . . . this is about her. All of it. She’s something special.

  Something special.

  Andy believed it too. She was special. He didn’t know how or what it all meant, but there was something different about her, something unique and innocent yet powerful. Besides all that, he genuinely liked Missy, maybe even more than liked her. Whether he had intended it or not—he hadn’t—and whether he wanted it or not—he didn’t—she’d opened a room in his heart he thought he’d locked forever. He cared for her, although he wasn’t sure if it was in a little-sister kind of way or something more than that.